Tongue Magazine Issue 3- Faith by Jemma Utley

MARCH 2013 ISSUE 3

FAITH

MAGAZINE

TONGUE

Jemma Utley Editor in Chief Olivia Auckland Co-Editor Jennifer Mclean Columnist Leanne Cartwright Columnist Symon Rose Columnist Hamid Jalloh Marketing Samuel Pyle Creative Director

SPECIAL THANKS Rebecca Sampson-Jorge Cover Art

INSIDE FROM THE EDITOR In this issue we consider faith as a religious construct, as an act of trust and as an essential part of the creative process. Faith relies on creativity and creativity relies on faith. Without a medium to represent religion then how would guidelines and expectations remain cast in stone? The belief in unseen gods, perpetual rebirth and being able to justify the actions of religious leaders who contradict their own faith, has to be reinforced by effective marketing. The gods become real through illustrative representation and fantastic stories of their miracles. It is arguable that artistic licence turned water into wine and sent Satan to the eternal inferno. But the well-woven and engaging nature of those tales has created religions that people shape their lives by as a moral compass. However, without faith creativity would not exist; the faith in yourself to be able to put pen to that discouraging stretch of white paper. Believing that the moment you have captured is worth other people seeing, your imaginative output is not derivative, and that the moment appears authentic. Not only that, but knowing that one life is worth immortalising so that when you die, your creativity lives on as a fictionalised representative of your beliefs and existence.

With this in mind we hope to present you with a balance of work that both celebrate and question the need for religion, as a comforter, as a saviour, and as an unrequited love. Once again I would like to give a massive thank you to the artists, photographers and writers for their excellent contributions; without the faith you have in us our third edition would have been a lot smaller. Also, you who have taken the time to read our hard work, thank you and make sure you tell your friends how wonderful this is to read alongside a cup of tea. I would also like to take the time to thank the team, you have all really taken strides forward in becoming independent workers and this has meant I have been able to achieve a far more satisfactory work/life balance. As I type this I am looking out at the shore at Brighton, this wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be possible without all of you contributing so enthusiastically. I would also like to welcome our new photographer, Jak Utley as he will be bringing you a continuous supply of delicious photography from now on. Another new addition is Elise Lauren P who will be our new head of marketing. Hopefully with these new members we will become an unstoppable force. Now, please settle in and enjoy this monthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s issue!

FAITH

THE MOUTHPIECE

THE TEAM

Introducing our third ever featured theme - Faith. It represents so much for so many people we’d considered it important to explore its relationship with creativity. This section includes articles from our regular writers, and artwork from Tongue’s favourite - Abbie Louise Birtles amongst others.

The Tongue is out again in search individuals who have carved their part into the literary world. This time we’ve collared Jeremy Hight who has been kind enough to share some of his insight with us. Don’t forget to check out his work in the links provided. Fascinating stuff!

We keep letting you into what makes us tick with our hopes, hates, and embarrassing drunken behaviour. This week we’ll be getting to know our Co-Editor and one of our regular columnists.

CREATIVE SUBMISSIONS

TONGUE SUBMISSIONS

This months theme has proven to be rather inspiring and provocative with our guest writers, artists and photographers. The amount of submissions have been incredible, so a big thanks to everyone.

We shamelessly plug our own work! Enjoy!

Jak Utley Photographer

FEATURE

WHAT IS FAITH? We have a new section for you to sink your teeth into this month, ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’, where Leanne Cartwright has scrutinised book to film adaptations with a critical eye; as we are sure you do from the sofa on a regular basis. Also we head back to classic literature with Symon Rose as he reviews Milton’s Paradise Lost. It’s a book worth comparing to the Bible’s book of Genesis, as we look through the eyes of Milton’s Lucifer, after his

fall from grace which resulted in the fall of humanity. But that’s not all! We have an article by Olivia Auckland as she considers the relationship between travel writing and faith. We have interviewed Jeremy Hight, a writer who interlaced poetry with the streets of Los Angeles through the clever use of a GPS. He is an inspiration to those who are looking to keep faith in the written word as a tide of technology comes in an

attempt to drown it. If you have any books you want our eagle eyes to analyse, whether it is a book you love, or a book you have written and you think we will be interested then send your suggestions to tonguemag@gmail. com. Please note: we will not accept unpublished work for reviews as we are looking to gain revenue through Amazon advertisements in the near future Jemma Utley Editor 4

Amit MazumdeR FAITH

INTERVIEW FEATURE

The Religious and Non-Religious Spiritual Journey in Modern Travel Writing ‘Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?’ Paul Gauguin.

Why does our appetite for travel continue to be so insatiable? Despite all the

knowledge we have accumulated, despite all we have gained, we remain unsatisfied; still, we are searching. What are we in search of when we shed the daily burdens of modern life and set off to an unknown land? Spirituality and spiritual thinking, with a focus on the inner self and the psychological impact of traveling, increasingly appears between the lines of both formal and informal travel writing. The pilgrimages of the ancient and medieval world were under the weight of an intensely religious era, with religious selfsacrifice dominant in travel and recordings. The travelogue

was consequently a largely impersonal genre. To fill pages with psychological or philosophical matter, as we do now with our notebooks or laptops or travel blogs, was not only forbidden (curiositas in secular and non-spiritual matters were deemed sinful), but also an undiscovered domain. Faith and Spirituality were specifically religious. Travel writing of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries served the purpose to deliver reports on the freshly discovered regions of the world. The quest was to conquer, colonise, and extract wealth, and rather than seeking personal transformation, the traveller was to use the opportunity to construct a national identity; that of the Englishman as a “hero”, a man of intellect, sophistication

and bravery. With this, came the recognition of individuality, change, and of consequently the genre made a movement towards exploring non-religious spirituality. The genre developed a great deal, towards what we recognise today as ‘Travel Writing’, when Freudian theories created an anxiety of identity among the Western world. The fragility of rationality was demonstrated by psychoanalysis. Identities of both oneself and ‘the other’ were no longer stable; religion didn’t offer satisfactory answers to the ultimate questions of ‘Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? Modern knowledge of the world and of the human, led the individual to reach below the embodied self to that which lies below consciousness

The genre developed a great deal, towards what we recognise today as ‘Travel Writing’, when Freudian theories created an anxiety of identity among the Western world.

and rationality. Robyn Davidson, the famous ‘Camel Lady’ and author of Tracks, 1980, is a fascinating example of the modern traveller and the spiritual quest. The Davidson who begins her journey into the desert is the timid, fragile prey, living under the reign of the Australian cult of misogyny. It is easy to naturally read women travellers as exceptional and extraordinary women who have somehow managed to escape patriarchy but it can be a troublesome reading, further reinforcing gender divides which women are trying to break. But we can certainly conclude that Davidson is searching for her identity as the survivor, not the victim. An element of Davidson’s psyche experiences the desire to accept her expected position as the ‘weaker sex’. This version of self is opposed by the she who is the adventurer and imaginative explorer, the she who desires to continue on a journey which has been mocked and judged by the other; both the conforming woman and the man. This incoherence of self reflects the crisis of the gendered identity which Davidson experiences as a woman traveller. Faced with a traditionally masculine quest, Davidson’s inner self becomes fragmented; ‘split’ into the incoherence of multiple

voices. As Fussell theorised, travel in the twentieth century was fuelled by the yearning to discover the fractured self, and perhaps, begin to piece it together. So, the traveller begins a journey of self-transformation; an arduous process for Davidson, who encounter various stages of exultation and misery. The Australian desert offers Davidson the opportunity to disregard Western etiquette and expectations of female modesty. To put it bluntly – she allows her menstrual blood to run down her legs. This new, sociologically freed Davidson allows psychological and spiritual transformation to begin. The desert is often endowed with redemptive and purifying powers that cleanse and nurture the soul – for many travellers it is considered to be potentially transcendent and spiritual. Davidson watches a group of Aborigine women dancing. Here, quests of both the spiritual pilgrimage and the psychological pilgrimage appear to be satisfied. Firstly, Davidson experiences a transmittance of power from the land and is absorbed into the ritual, relinquishing all remaining composure and joining the dance. This moment can be defined as spiritual, in the least as transcendent and divine. Secondly Davidson

seems to be cleansed of her ‘white-guilt’ and thus experiences psychological transformation. At the end of her quest, Davidson assesses the process of travel as ‘to break the moulds, to be heedless of the seductions of security is an impossible struggle, but one of the few that count. To be free is to learn, to test yourself constantly, to gamble’. If the quest is religious or non-religious, spirituality and psychological introspection coexist in the modern pilgrimage. And the process? Shedding burdens, and allowing oneself to be freed, transformed, and found Olivia Auckland Co-Editor

INTERVIEW FEATURE

PERCY jACKSON A SYNPOSIS Whilst there is much literary territory to explore in modern faith and the creations of fantasists there has always been a few ancient faiths whose mythos bridges the gap between modern faith and fantasy. It is in this fertile ground Rick Riordan has created the compelling world of Percy Jackson fuelled by the Greek Olympians and Titans, closely followed by the Roman mythology in the second series. Starting with a seemingly normal 12 year old with ADHD and dyslexia (common signs of demi-godhood apparently, so we can all keep dreaming!) Rick Riordan’s series quickly fuses the Greek Mythology with modern day America through the revelation that Percy is a demigod and not just any demi-god – he breaks a long-standing pact between Zeus, Poseidon and Hades to have no more children with mortals. In places the series can be quite cheesy and relies heavily

upon coincidence and blind luck as narrative devices – yet in spite of these flaws the characters are engaging and the clever use of the Greek gods and mythos within modern society, which is slowly expanded on throughout the series culminating in the rise of the Titans and access to Mount Olympus, really draws the reader in whilst equally offering an educational experience by staying true to the original mythology. As a whole the series has nice progression and it genuinely feels like the characters do grow and change in a realistic way, which is refreshing when similar series often have stagnant characters, however the three middle books are somewhat weaker than the first and last instalments for me. The initial discovery of being a demigod and journeying to the underworld in Lightning Thief makes for a dramatic and thrilling

journey, whilst the New York battle in The Last Olympian offers equally epic proportions with just the right amount of emotional interludes. Yet the other three, whilst still good reads, feel somewhat lacking; to me I think reaching Hell in the first novel lead to this as although the Labyrinth and other mythological locales are still interesting they just feel underwhelming when we’ve already traversed the underworld and survived. As I touched on earlier these books do rely on coincidence and luck a lot in order to drive the plot, some of these coincidences can be a bit hard to swallow, such as Hades having a hidden son and Zeus having also broke the pact to conveniently supply a child for each of ‘The Big Three.’ Yet the series as a whole is still entertaining, enjoyable and even touching in places making it worth a look for a casual read. Especially as it continues into a 8

second series in which Riordan fuses Roman mythology into the Greek, which adds a refusing twist through dual personas and balancing the two similar but differing religions. Whilst, to me, these two series mark the best of Riordan’s work it is worth noting he does explore other avenues as well. ‘The Kane Chronicles’ is a trilogy exploring Egyptian mythology in a similar fashion whilst there is also a Norse-based series slated for around 2015

Symon Rose Columnist

REVIEW ‘His dark materials’ by Phillip Pullman is one of my favourite fantasy trilogies and the epic final novel, ‘The Amber Spyglass’, does not disappoint. Even though the plot has been laid out for you in the first two books there are still many twists to be experienced and things that will take any reader of the trilogy by surprise. Phillip Pullman has often been praised as being a Master Storyteller and I have to agree with this. Every word that has been written in the novel is so perfectly placed that there are no points where the story drags. 9

In ‘The Amber Spyglass’ the religious undertones that were present in the two previous books are brought to the forefront. The main character, Will, is followed by angels who beg him to take part in what is essentially a battle between the heaven and earth, he cannot see the angels clearly only hear them. ‘God’ is not actually a god but the first angel who forced everyone to believe that he was the creator. The angels, up until that point, had never before interfered with the lives of the earthly inhabitants, allowing organised religion to rule in their

stead with often disastrous consequences. It is also suggested that if it had not been for conscious thought there would be no such thing as angels. In this way the novel challenges the idea of blind faith, with the creator being nothing but an ageing angel who lied to those who were willing to believe. The novel’s main theme is a challenge of the creation story. Pullman allows every parallel universe he has created to have their own version of the creation story, all ending with a different idea of what the original sin was. To some it was eating an apple. Pullman poignantly suggests that the original sin was the moment that human’s realised what they were. It was the loss of innocence and obedience, the moment a child becomes an adult with a kiss. Pullman manages to undermine the church whilst allowing that faith is still an important part of being human. There is a feeling that he is criticizing organised religion that forces people into believing in the form of the Magisterium, the church in one of the parallel universes, who exerts a strong and unyielding control over society. Pullman’s trilogy is a must read that not only takes you on a journey but is also a fantastic work of fiction that questions what is truly important Leanne Cartwright Columnist

INTERVIEW FEATURE Hannah Pokky Photographer

PARADISE LOST One of the literary classics Milton’s Paradise Lost

is an epic poem that reimagines the creation of Satan and hell and Adam and Eve’s loss of paradise through sin. It may not be the easiest of reads, the text is very dense with imagery and takes real determination to break through to the meaning within; yet it is a very worthwhile text to of read. It’s alternate take on the biblical stories we are all familiar with is quite refreshing and, though it does ultimately conform to the Christian message, the view point predominantly driven by Satan offers some unusual views on God and what it means to disobey him. Given the prevalence of God centric genesis re-imaginings and the often anti-religious tones of otherwise focused retellings the combination of a Satan centric view and Milton’s devotion to Christianity,

Paradise Lost has many subtle nuances hidden with the dense imagery that might pass the casual reader by. Particularly in book one there is a wealth of information about Satan and his gathered band of fallen angels, devils and nonChristian deities whilst the actual creation of earth and paradise have virtually no reference – yet Milton somehow makes this work. We are shown how Hell and Satan are born from resentment, bitterness and other undesirable qualities simply as they were not God’s favourite, which in turn adds new meaning to Adam and Eve’s fall from grace. The original sin is not pinned on the humans themselves; rather Satan in the guise of a serpent orchestrated it as an act of revenge. All in all Paradise Lost is probably, well, lost on most people. The sheer density of the text can be headache inducing, even for a literature graduate, combined with

the very overt Christian message, which can be off putting to the less religious and in places detracts from the sense of narrative due to the requirement to conform to the original story. Yet it is still a literary classic and, at the very least, worth a try as there is much that can be learnt from the image style (even if perhaps that lesson is a what-notto-do) and epic poems of true merit and few and far between as a genre, especially in modern works. For the truly brave there is also the lesserknown sequel Paradise Regained to tackle as well for a more complete narrative Symon Rose Columnist

Abbie Louise Birtles SCRIBBLE ANGEL

Abbie Louise Birtles PREACHER

Chinua Achebe

FAITH SECTION ONE

In Remembrance of

obituary

“The world is like a Mask dancing. If you want to see it well, you do not stand in one place.” – Chinua Achebe Arrow of God

Chinua Achebe is a name many may not know first hand, but to anyone who has even considered colonial, postcolonial or African literature he is an icon of the field. A Nigerian born novelist, poet, essayist and critic Achebe’s career has spanned decades, starting in 1950 with the publication of Things Fall Apart (The most read book in African literature and a staple of the colonial discourse of African life) right up to 2012 with the publication of There Was A Country (a controversial piece about the Nigerian War). Fondly known as the ‘grandfather of Nigerian literature’ his untimely death due to illness on 21st March 2013 is a great lose to the literary world. His frank and unashamed perspective on issues of colonial rule, the Nigerian civil war and more has made for a plethora of great critical work. Not to forget his novels and poems that draw vivid picture of traditional African life during these times whilst retaining something of the oral story telling of their culture. Many of his novels depicted the battles of the traditional religious and social structures against the 13

Christian colonial influence and, unlike many other texts of the genre, did not depict Christianity as a good stabilising force for heathens – instead he gave us a touching view of a perfectly stable world thrown in to chaos by the colonial meddling. So, with great sadness, we hope all our readers may take a moment to explore or rediscover Achebe’s great legacy of work and remember that we have lost a literary great of our time

Symon Rose Columnist

“If you don’t like someone’s story, you write your own.” – Chinua Achebe The Paris Review

“Faith is clerical absolution - faith is just a profound excuse to have your sins revoked.”

“Faith is something which cannot be seen It’s something which has now been Faith is in too many eyes Of too many murderers And too much disguise.”

“Faith is the belief that everything will work out, despite the fact everything could go terribly wrong.” “Faith is an unjustified, strong feeling that something is correct.”

WHAT IS

“Faith is what gives people the strength to keep going when everything life throws at them says stop.”

“Faith is something that is unfounded yet strongly felt, people have faith regardless of if they have religion. Belief, is also the same.”

“Faith is knowing it will be ok.”

“Faith is control and freedom. Faith is knowing with your heart not your head. Faith is belief in something more and disbelief in your own limitations.” Symon Rose

“Faith is leaving yourself vulnerable to someone else and knowing they’ll prove it was worth it.”

Faith is indefinable. Faith is changing. Not only does the word bear different meaning to each individual; the notion of ‘faith’ changes over time. Every natural disaster, act of terrorism, disease, death, birth, and act of betrayal has an impact on the way we view our religiousness or secularism, or our general ability to believe in goodness. Often we feel unable to solidify our place among a certain ‘group’, where elements of ourselves do or do not have faith in elements of the teaching. You believe in an after-life, but define yourself as atheist. You believe in the messages of your religion, but not necessarily in the stories of the scripture. You have faith in the good of humans, all the while recognising

“Faith is believing in something you feel, rather than something you see.”

“Faith is in your head.”

“Faith is desire for something more than your own shitty existence.” “Faith is being able to wake up in the morning after a horrible day and still being able to smile.”

“Faith is belief beyond reason. When there is everything saying what you want can’t be, and still you keep on going, that is faith.“ “Faith is something in-between imagination and wishful thinking. If you have it you’re a dreamer, if you don’t... you’re a cynic.”

S FAITH?

“Faith is the belief that everything will work out, despite the fact everything could go terribly wrong”

how much damage we have done. Faith can be complicated, a thorny and potentially dangerous belief. Faith can be divine and enlightening. Faith can make you vulnerable, when the reality is not compatible. Faith can be our only source of strength, when everything seems to be falling apart. When we called on a variety of people to finish the phrase ‘Faith is…’, the outcome was fascinating. Be it a religious belief, belief in humans, or belief in scientific and philosophical progression, the array of answers shows that most people are believers in something. And that faith, at least, we do share

“Faith is a belief in some kind of holistic universal comfort, that saves us from Nihilism.”

“Faith is: the belief that my family have taught me everything I need to know to be a strong, good person, that what I don’t know; I have the capacity to learn, that for every arsehole in the world; there are many more wonderful people. That there is always another option.” Liv Rae Auckland.

“Faith is walking across the road and knowing that you’re going to reach the other side.” Leanne Cartwright “Faith is blind belief.”

“Faith is...my life.” 15

“Faith is the trust that occupies the space beyond rationality. While not intrinsically good or bad, religious or secular it underpins a very basic human desire to challenge uncertainty - in everything we do.” Samuel Pyle

FEATURE

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY HERE AT TONGUE WE LOVE BOOKS, MAYBE NEARLY AS MUCH AS YOU DO. SO IF YOU HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS PLEASE DROP THEM BY OUR WEBSITE ANYTIME. ALSO KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR THE UPCOMING GUEST REVIEWS.

It is no secret that book to film adaptations are on the rise. Every year a new book is transformed into a live action moving picture. It is often hard to let go of the world that your imagination created for the book, the way the characters look and the way that certain moments make you feel. If they are done badly in the film it’s hard to ignore it. So many times I’ve left the cinema feeling disappointed by what I thought would be a really good adaptation. For this reason here is a rundown of the good, the bad, and the ugly.

SCORE D A SOLID 7.8/10 SOURCE IMDB.CO.UK

CLOUD ATLAS The Good

The novel, is a well-constructed experiment in form that takes the reader on a journey through time using the idea of reincarnation. In the book the theme is merely hinted at with small things such as a birthmark in the shape of a comet. The lives of the narrators are linked in other ways as well for example an aspiring pianist who reads the diary of the first narrator. The novel

itself is very difficult to get through as you a greeted with a diary entry that can put people off.

The film is a good recreation of the book, bringing to life what is often lost when trying to read the parts of the diary and often the letters. The film showcases reincarnation in many ways by using the same actors in each part to help reiterate

the fact that each is important to the others life. The actors were well chosen and well suited to the part and the fact that Hugo Weaving cross dresses as an old woman is a bonus that cannot be missed. In this case an all-star cast only aids the brilliance of the film.

A JUST WATCHABLE 6.9/10 SOURCE IMDB.CO.UK

Narnia: The lion, the witch, and the wardrobe The Bad

The

novel:

A good, well written, children’s book. The characters are well described and very easy to imagine. It would be a lie to say that the dialogue is not cheesy, of course it is. The book was written a very long time ago and set in World War II. The novel’s retelling of the passion of the Christ is subtle and well done.

The Film: From a child’s point of view the film is good however as an adaptation it falls into the bad. The acting is cheesy and one dimensional, it is hard to feel any emotion especially at the peak moments when it is crucial such as Edmund’s betrayal. As with every Narnia adaptation so far it seems pointless to include the Professor, Diggory, mentioning his time in Narnia. There has never been

an adaptation of ‘The Magician’s Nephew’ something that should be remedied. Having Liam Neeson as the voice of Aslan helps to redeem the film slightly and it is impossible to forget the re-imagining of the white witch who is far from the black haired beauty described in C.S. Lewis’ book.

AN OVERLY KIND 6.1/10 SOURCE IMDB.CO.UK

The Northern Lights The Ugly

The novel: The Northern Lights

The film: The Golden Compass

is a book from one of my favourite trilogies by Phillip Pullman. The book details an adventure taken by Lyra as she uncovers secrets kept by the church and attempts to rescue her best friend Roger from the clutches of her own mother. The novel is exciting and Lyra is a strong minded and interesting little girl.

Even as a standalone film â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;The Golden compassâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; is not very good. The plot is stilted and far from the exciting adventure laid out in the book. The film jumps from place to place with no regard to characters or what is important from the book. All the religious undertones are removed, leaving behind only an unexplained moment with Ms Coulter and dust. It is often hard to

explain everything that needs to be explained in a film and so I forgive the director for leaving out any explanation of what the daemons are. This does not, however, mean that it should not have been attempted. The daemons just seem like animals that follow people around with no real significance. Do not let yourself be fooled by the star studded cast, even Ian McKellen could not save this film Leanne Cartwright Columnist

PHOTOGRAPHY OF JAK UTLEY

theGNOMEREALM

thegnomerealm.wordpress.com 20

Jak Utley Photographer

INTERVIEW

e h -T

MOUTHPIECE JEREMY HIGHT HAS BEEN KIND ENOUGH TO SPEND SOME TIME TALKING TO TONGUE Jeremy Hight writes poetry, fiction, theory and information design essays. He is new a media curator, an editor for LEA, art director and curator for Unlikely Stories.

Tongue: How do you think digital media is affecting writing and the arts? Jeremy: It has opened up interesting forms since the early days of hypertext fiction and poetry up through locative narratives, mobile works, game and anti-game narratives, QR code narratives and writing working with and playing with social media. It is also

interesting to see the increasing number of online magazines that either have an offline component or are solely on the net. An interesting emergent area is work that tells stories through texts, emails and what seem to be real time news stories and user interaction but are actually a larger work that emerges over time and has multiple possible outcomes. The relation of digital 24

and non-digital work in art has been a kind of a perceived orbit of digital works around the larger world of fine art. This is problematic as it depends on how one looks at it and at times what the person wants to perceive as far as this dichotomy. People have declared “new media” as dead, emergent or in its moment for decades now (usually all at the same time). It will be interesting to see emergent forms and forms of publication in the next few years as we move closer to leaving cell phones and laptops to more options that are in the field of vision with virtual keyboards (like Google glasses but much more advanced and less clumsy) or voice to text and shared data in this emergent network. Of course, there is a possible dystopic element but this is true with all new technology. Will be interesting.

Tongue: What gave you the inspiration for the 34N118W project? Jeremy: I first wanted to be a scientist and writer as a kid. In high school I got really into poetry and prose and winning an award and feeling the sense of how organic writing felt (as I was bombing my math classes) made it clear that I had to choose. I studied creative writing at San Francisco State and at Cal Arts and worked in a lot of forms of experimental writing, hybrids and more traditional fiction. I finished my MFA and found that it seemed there might be other areas in writing to explore. My friend Jeff called me and said he had an idea about working with GPS and space. This was in 2000 so it was really intriguing to think of working with this tool (at the time) primarily used by pilots, ship captains and 25

hikers. It first hit me that by being able to trigger prose poem/ shortshort bits at a specific physical place (by latitude and longitude) that you as a writer could write with the physical world. It was a really exciting notion. I began researching the history of a part of downtown Los Angeles and writing texts based on people and places that had existed in the past. The second epiphany was one I actually remember in the exact moment like a photo. I was crossing the street outside the downtown library when it hit me: invert that idea…. allow places to speak. I called the concept “narrative archaeology” and published a few essays on it over the years. A place and its history, layers of past, iterations, even things forgotten or supressed could be given voice in a sense by being triggered as someone walked by where they once were and GPS coordinates triggered the story/ stories of these layers of the past.

Tongue: This month’s theme is ‘faith,’ how do you think faith influences the creative process? Jeremy: Great question. The first thing that comes to mind is how one must have faith in several facets to even have a process at all. It is so common to have many people tell you that you should not focus so much on creative work and to be “practical”, etc. When I switched from studying Meteorology to English Literature and a minor in Creative Writing I was told so many times that it is too hard and will mean basically living on ramen noodles and cheese sandwiches while clacking away on things no one will read. Others thought it very helpful to focus on the merits on writing romance novels, soft core

porn or descriptions of widgets and knick-knacks. It was a bit like being the salmon swimming against the stream in those days to persevere. The next thing that comes to mind is the faith in a flash of some collision in language, an iteration of some morass of emotions trailing some life experience or free exploration in the plasticity of language and metaphor that this will come into something from them that is coherent but alive with what that initial itch was of and the process. The last is of the notion of Roland Barthes and the “death of the author”. The last “writer” will be the observer and their interpretation. This makes sense even as it initially is a bit of radical concept. The creative person must have faith in the space between them and whoever reads or sees their work and that there will be something interesting that the other person comes away with even if not exactly what was originally intended and that the elements of the work will resonate even in this other read.

Tongue: So, you came to Nottingham Trent University to take part in the Trace international symposium of technology and writing in 2004 and read ‘Narrative Archaeology.’ Could you sum up your essay for our readers? Jeremy: It interestingly enough has become a term in some areas since. The essence was on the project 34 north and that realization that the writing process could use the physical world (walk to the dry river bed as you hear about the moment that the character felt there was no hope, pass the cracked old wall as the prose poem talked of what we lose over time..) and of reading places

and letting them “speak”. I called it Narrative Archaeology as you could essentially dig for artefacts in the layers of the past in books and on the net and place them in a location to trigger by latitude and longitude like the general concept of the Archaeologist digging through layers of soil types and finding artefacts along the way of different times, periods and events. Cities and the landscape of the world can even have channels/layers of information about them made accessible and archived spatially.

Tongue: What advice would you give a new writer starting out? Jeremy: Have faith. Explore. Read works in different forms and genres for pleasure and to feel out possible future paths and possible fusions. Keep a journal (online or good old paper) and jot observations down and kernels of possible later works to make. Start a writer’s group even if it is 2 or 3 people to share and help each other. Don’t compare yourself to writers you deeply admire as they have been around the block a few more times and were a new writer once too. Be a sponge as much as possible. Tongue: What made you want to be a writer? Jeremy: Have to go back to the days of pajamas and watching cartoons. Great question. I read a lot and asked a million questions as a little kid. I found after a while that books had really interesting answers longer than one from dad while he is driving and that you could go on journeys in them. It seemed pretty amazing that someone could as a grown up go “oh yeah…I do that”. I also was this little weather nerd in a town with mostly really boring

weather so I would write little kid stories of super dramatic stories and hide them to later discover them. It was pretty cool (especially being a sloppy kid with piles of stuff in the closet to someday dig through) to find this little artefact of some huge hailstorm or hurricane coming ashore. I visited my mom while at Cal Arts and found an old drawer amazingly kept from my childhood bed that was untouched in that closet long organized and converted as my mom fell ill with Multiple Sclerosis and needed nursing care. In the drawer was a rejection letter from Big Bird from the television show Sesame Street. Someone wrote little kid me back in his character as I submitted poems to them for some reason at 6 or 7. Funny. I also began writing more seriously when my mom lost the ability to speak and it was so hard to see such an amazing spirit lose this ability we all take for granted. I am forever grateful for her advice and encouragement before she passed away Jemma Utley Editor

Have faith. Explore. Read works in different forms and genres for pleasure and to feel out possible future paths and possible fusions.

CHECK OUT THE 34N118W PROJECT launched in 2003 “Imagine walking through the city and triggering moments in time. Imagine wandering through a space inhabited with the sonic ghosts of another era. Like ether, the air around you pulses with spirits, voices, and sounds. Streets, buildings, and hidden fragments tell a story. The setting is the Freight Depot in

downtown Los Angeles. At the turn of the century Railroads were synonymous with power, speed and modernization. Telegraphs and Railroads were our first cross-country infrastructures, preceding the Internet. From the history and myth of the Railroad to the present day, sounds and voices drift in and out as you walk.”

http://34n118w.net/34N/

DON’T MISS HIGHT’S COLLABERATIVE WORK Carrizo-Parkfield Diaries “Field notes in a subliminal world, the Diaries record active tectonic traces of a geologic diary within the shifting terrain of human remembrance and amnesia.”

http://artport.whitney.org/gatepages/artists/ nakatani/new_index.html

M.J. DUGGAN BEHIND A VEIL OF COLD SEASON

Jak Utley Photographer

TEAM

e h -T

TEAM THIS MONTH WE WILL BE PUTTING OUR CO-EDITOR OLIVIA AUCKLAND AND COLUMNIST LEANNE CARTWRIGHT UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT TO SEE WHAT MOTIVATES THEM TO WORK FOR TONGUE. Olivia Auckland C o - E d i t o r

Creativity has always been an instinctual form of exploration and expression for me. My upbringing nurtured the mind and imagination and encouraged individuality. Holidays were spent drawing beautiful characters and writing their stories, and a handful of notebooks from sleepless nights became a drawer-full of dreams. Somewhere between painting and

essay writing my love of art fell away to my love of words. Writing became not just something I wanted to do but something I had to do. My writing, always, has to be honest. Fantasy, for that reason, never appealed to me. It was J.D. Salinger, Zadie Smith and Curtis Sittenfeld who first swept into my teenage mind, and then Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Plath. The 32

THE TEAM SECTION THREE

drudgery and the magic of reality is unreal enough. I believe that a great writer needs a combination of anxiety and confidence, but self-doubt was my downfall for a long time. Now I stand by myself and my voice with conviction. Just like artists, dancers, and musicians, writers have to hold themselves up and be naked. I found the strength to be vulnerable during the second year of my degree, my

work and resulting grades changed dramatically, and I went on to graduate with a First Class BA (Hons) in English with Creative Writing. Dreams are endless and fluid, they ebb and flow and they develop as people do. I like to take it one day at a time, and let my ultimate goal be my undercurrent: to live off my writing

LeanneCartwright Copyeditor,writer, a n d f a n t a s i s t

I love the idea of being transported into a new world that is filled with possibilities, where there is no limit to the imagination. That, among other reasons, is why I love the fantasy genre more than any other. When I first started writing it was a form of expression, a way for me to get down everything that I was feeling down on paper. I needed a place to unleash my imagination, a place where it was safe to write and feel however I wanted to feel. I love writing fantasy as much as I love reading it, there are so many directions that can be taken with what you are writing and it’s easy to have fun with fantasy. Fantasy is my biggest escape. Through all the lows it is there for me to pick up and travel to anywhere, it doesn’t have to be a happy place just another world. In more modern fantasies, those written by Karen Miller and Trudi Canavan, the characters and emotions that they portray and even some of the situation they are put in are as real as any other fiction novel. The only difference is a little bit of magic that often hinders rather than helps. I grew up in a housing estate that backs onto farmland and a large wooded area and every weekend we used to walk our dog in what I am going to call ‘the forest’ and I could just imagine dragons nesting in the stone crags and the trees coming to life at night. To me it became the most magical place in the world, a place where anything could happen. I suppose it was

the way that ‘the forest’ made me feel that trees have become such a large motif in most of my writing. Forests are a large backdrop filled with dangers that can be exploited and hidden trails that weren’t there before. When I first started putting pen to paper I would draw some of the most important scenes, at one point I had an ambition to create a graphic novel and I’m sure that if I could draw better I would have achieved it even if it wasn’t a published graphic novel. I used to write happy endings that were nicely tied off with a big bow where everyone has found someone and fallen in love. This used to be my biggest weakness. Years of cynicism and the ever bearing down of reality have taught me that there is no such thing as a nice neat happy ending. Now I tend to leave the reader with some sort of suspense. I think it is overkill to go to the other extreme and only write Hamlet style endings where everybody dies. Now my biggest weakness is description, when does it become enough? I tend to forget the overall story when I’m writing a section and lose track of where certain things are meant to fit in. My biggest problem that has been holding me back involves over editing. It starts with a small change to maybe the first chapter and then I cannot stop and the story never finds its end. Over the next five years I hope to finally finish something before I edit it, to have a whole draft done and ready to be completely edited. There have been many writers who have touched my life and gifted me with small moments of inspiration. I have already mentioned two of them above but there are so many others who have

allowed me to see that fantasy is more about adventures and magic, the characters drive the story the story does not drive the characters. Currently I’m mostly inspired by music, I have an entire playlist dedicated to inspiring me with certain emotions. Once I tried to experiment with writing in time to music, it goes well until the story is longer than the song. My overall dream is to have a fully completed and published novel with my name embossed on the binding. It would be dedicated to my English tutors at college for encouraging me to pursue my writing. If it were not for them I probably would never have gone to University and gained the knowledge and courage to continue writing

abbie loiuse birtles ZOMBIENUN

DONALD HUTTON

WHAT ABOUT A CREATIVE TITLE

Jak Utley Photographer

CREATIVE SUBMISSIONS SECTION FOUR

DONALD HUTTON Haircut Faith ANDY PALMER This is the End JACK PRENDERGAST Have Faith, Old Man! LINSEY BAILEY Thump! M.J. DUGGAN When the Evening Lost the Day Behind a Veil of Cold Season

SOMETIMES WORDS ARE NOT ENOUGH LEMONY SNICKET WHAT IS IT? WHAT DOES IT MEAN FOR YOU? HOW DOES FAITH OR LACK OF - INFLUENCES YOUR EXPERIENCE? IS IT GOOD OR BAD, OR BEYOND THAT ENTIRELY? BE BRAVE. BE BOLD We have had some excellent submissions this month for both poetry and prose and we hope you appreciate the hard work that has been bravely sent in. We have provided you with a range of work that creates a balanced sense of what faith is to different people so please read ahead with an open mind. We’re very proud of work that has been given and we look forward to getting even more for April’s issue where we welcome you to consider humanity’s impact on the environment. But in the meantime, while you read these we would like you to consider what faith means to you, is it the faith needed to get your hair cut by a stranger? Or is it an unwavering faith in God? 41

If you have any feedback please send it to tonguemag@gmail. com, it would be lovely to hear from our readers! Also if you have any suggestions for future themes feel free to let us know, this is your magazine and we want to make sure your creative cravings are satisfied. Now, take a deep breath and dive in.

Ananya S Guha Relationship Eric Mwathi Prayer Sujaya Venkatesh Faith! BRIAN HOOD The Creationist Museum Neelam Chandra An Ode to God Michelle D-Costa Faith is wilma kenny The Masters Seal Jay sizemore Creationism God of Creation

and accomplying artwork HANNAH POKKY Photography Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani Bleed Glee DAVID BOEVING If Only CONNIE A. LOPEZ Tithe The Devil

HAIRCUT FAITH Yesterday I put on my Federal Government green brush-workers pants, red-plaid-buffalo shirt red button suspenders and brown pull-on steel-toe work boots went to get a haircut in the up-and-coming neo-gentrified part of town. No dice. Don’t know if it was my grey beard, or what. I felt like there had been a meeting of some sort and they had decided against me, before I showed up. One of the cutters looked to me like she was jonesing, but maybe I justreminded her of somebody she didn’t like, but it could have been just some blanket policy, they were holding close to their vests, for trade reasons. Today I hit another shop in a small mall, by some super discount shoe and clothing chain store, where Cutter was American obese, had arms like pop-eye, fading-tat one liner blue-ink, probably somebody’s name, looked like it’d been put on with a sharpened knitting needle, told me I might have a fifteen minute wait, told her that’s why I brought a book. She called me to the chair about five minutes later, did I mention her front head-hair was fully peroxided, whereas the back half looked like she’d shampooed it with Barton’s Black Safety leather dye? She started to ask me how I wanted it cut, so I told her I wanted two things: one, I wanted anyone I fell in love with, to fall just that same amount in love, with me, and two, I wanted the haircut to last through spring into summer, without making me appear too shabby on the outside. Then we laughed, talked about the shallowness of appearances, etc. The difference between seeing someone in a still photo and seeing the same person in person, and how just a person moving, facial expressions all that, made the person real and ever-changing and how nice that change, that newness was, despite everything, the newness even if it was bad, was somehow good, and we laughed again. Then she told me how to fix my cow-lick, try combing it not to control it, but to let it go the other way so it wouldn’t just jump up, when I tried to comb it. I was amazed, it was just like‘Dylan’s’ song, a simple twist of fate, all the times I’d had haircuts, all the times I’d mentionedit to barbers, none had ever said “Hey, try this, it’ll work.” And I told her that too, and she smiled. I think it was the book, I think she felt OK because of the book, I think maybe she had faith in book toters. It was a nice experience. A nice cut too.

DONALD HUTTON

THIS IS THE END

ANDY PALMER

The feeling was like standing outside of the headmaster’s office; of waking up and realising you have an exam you’re late for; the day of a driving test; the police knocking at your door; the crippling guilt when you’ve wronged someone; the seconds before a car crash; or a phone call that reports a death. Multiply all of these together, and then you’d have something close to the feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling was so intense I was hunched over when I walked. It was a pain deep inside that manifested itself in my body. Something had snapped. Something had physically broken inside of me. I was buying several bottles of wine in a supermarket one day in May 2001, which was not an unusual occurrence. Recently I’d felt depressed, morbid, hopeless, but that was nothing new; it was how I’d felt for years. I’d always thought that a crisis point would be reached, that I would eventually arrive at a crossroads having to choose between good or evil – God or myself – but I didn’t expect it to be today, of course, as I had already made plans. I still bought the wine. It was Chardonnay in silver mirrored bottles that I had bought to take to a party. When I looked at one of the bottles I saw a distorted version of myself staring back with an elongated and drawn face that looked trapped inside the receptacle – like the face of Marley in the doorknocker. As I made my way back to the annex at the youth hostel, where I was living, I was inconsolably sobbing and retching. The Square and Compass in Worth Matravers was the destination. I was heading up there with Marie Seavor and Andy Alway, both of who worked with me at the YHA in Swanage. I was quiet in the car and didn’t want to be around company whilst there, but I didn’t want to be alone either. My cigarette tasted horrible and my drink seemed to be repelled by my tongue. I sat on a bench outside of the pub, pulled my knees up towards my chin and held my arms around them firmly, as I felt that I would come apart if not. I stared out towards where I knew the cliffs met the sea several fields away and imagined the cobalt-blue waves with lace fingers nibbling at the cliff base. I thought about the stone-quarry caves full of bats and mystery and the night Marie and I had slept around a campfire just in front of them, under the stars. I cast my mind back to the afternoon we all climbed down to the cove at Winspit and ate a picnic with cous cous – the first time I remember having it – and Jamie swimming in the cold sea in his underpants. Dorset is beautiful, especially the Isle of Purbeck where I had found myself working in a youth hostel in Swanage. The beauty is not something that can easily be ignored whilst systematically destroying yourself, but it was something that was losing its power to sustain me. Jamie, Marie’s boyfriend, came and sat with me and asked me what was wrong. Jamie was local. “I feel terrible, I can’t stop crying. I don’t know how to feel better.” I must have sounded pitiful, but he looked concerned. “I had a friend who went through something similar. He came round eventually. Come into the pub and talk to people. That’ll make you feel better.” Jamie gave me a reassuring squeeze on my shoulder, patted me on the back and went back inside having misjudged the gravity of the situation. I was wrung out. There were thoughts kaleidoscoping around my mind crashing into each other like particles in The Large Hadron Collider. I wanted to grab a single thought and hang onto it for clarity, but they all evaded me staying within reach for a millisecond and then dissipating like vapour. I lay in bed for what seemed like weeks, but was more likely to have been days. Death comes at an unexpected hour, but I felt like I’d been given the heads up for my own. I couldn’t sleep for the thoughts, I couldn’t eat, and my steady companion of many years, alcohol, looked like a tired old enemy withered and crouching on the shelves at the foot of my bed. At night I sweated with fear and lay with my back against the wall staring around the room believing the blackness to be made up of shapes that writhed and twisted around each other with malevolent intent. I saw faces in the dark, distorted figures with faces from Francis Bacon paintings. The back of the annex led onto an unkempt area of trees and bushes, which was directly behind my room, visible through the windows. I heard what sounded like footsteps walking slowly towards the back of the annex where I was; then they would stop right outside of my window and I would freeze, breathe shallowly and wait for something to happen. Sometimes I would wait until the morning came. Nothing ever happened. There was no magic fix for my situation. Not the beauty of the landscape; the freedom; or the kindness of new friends. Not alcohol, which had been for many years my comfort and my abandon. The summer was approaching, but I felt a blackness encroaching upon me that I couldn’t banish. The managers of the hostel came, so did Marie and Andy, but there was nothing anyone could do. I would hardly talk. I just sobbed. I couldn’t think straight, no thought in my mind was remotely linear or at all quiet. I was like a fuse box shorting and sparking and spiking. I had one clear thought: God could help. And just like when Jesus calmed the storm, my mind went quiet. I said, “God, please can you help me? I don’t know what to do. I think I’m going to die.” 43

HAVE FAITH, OLD MAN!

A soothing wind blew in from the middle sea, bringing untold relief to the dwellers of a heartless desert. The scent of pomegranates and olive groves from the fabled shores of Olympus stirred a sinful longing to do the unthinkable and cast aside the heavy garments of tradition. Oh, to feel the sweat cool on the fevered flesh of their naked bodies! But who would be foolish enough to invite damnation, outside of a fool or a silly maiden? The girl in question had constrained her blue-eyes to furtive fumblings within stable or stairwell, but today he was resolved to conquer. How fine the boy had looked in his new vestment with its purple borders denoting his new status! How the fourteen-year-old had swooned at the bronzed musculature of his thighs, the aristocratic thrust of his jaw line! Something else was thrusting as usual, and this time he’d not be satisfied with the mere caress of her fingers. Perhaps it was her constant fear of losing him; perhaps it was a yearning to be free of her itchy woollen shift that made her reach for the knot of her drawstring. The boy swallowed, and suddenly she was nude with only her hands to shield her virgin modesty. Her mother made her select a particularly vicious cutting for the inevitable chastisement. It was nothing new. All females of her station could expect such beatings on an almost daily basis, regardless of age or culpability. Why, even junior male siblings might find themselves coerced into a balling of the knuckles in order to blood their sisters in a joyful rehearsal of future patriachal duties. The forty-five year-old knew well enough to avoid the bulge of the belly and the swollen nubbins of the teats. It was revenge she was after, not the burden of a dead body, so she was careful to limit the strokes to the buttocks and the thighs. She was unfazed by the shrieks for mercy, for no female worth her salt would find it a struggle to marshal a similar performance. Her mother was only truly convinced when the first hot squirt of urine erupted from between the lush flesh of her daughter’s thighs. With that little comedy attended to, the mother really began to worry. She’d seen stonings, and with the child’s daddy a longtime deserter, she knew she could expect little in the way of mercy from her pious neighbours. The solution was obvious; she’d have to find a surrogate husband. She shut out her child’s pitieous mewlings and began to think. Yusuf Bin Yusuf. Against all odds, the octogenarian still clung to life, if only to drown himself nightly on flagon after flagon of cheap Caesarian vino. Fate had not been kind to him. With no kith or kin to care for him in his dotage, and with a thirst that could sink the very Tiber, he’d surely be amenable to a lifetime’s supply of that which drives men mad plus a little harlot to wash his feet for him thrown into the bargain. Thus are such accommodations made. The mother held her head up and refused to make eye contact with the Rabbi, and the pair were unduly married. The odd couple had been joined in the eyes of Jahweh; nevertheless, the good and righteous people of the town were loathe to suffer the stench of a Jezebel in their midst. Veiled threats were used to hasten the departure of the two lovebirds, and so it was that Yusuf and his heavily pregnant wife found themselves on the stony road to nowhere, and it might have ended shortly thereafter with the old man expiring in a ditch from sheer exhaustion if not for the ass. The girl was in a fury of impatience with her geriatric guardian. She hoisted her skirts and pursued the donkey about the scrubland. She grabbed the protesting animal by its ears. She cuffed it about the nose and cursed it to remain still, then she hoisted herself onto its back and bullied it to the roadside. Rage had transformed her. She leapt from her stolen mount and heaved her mate onto the ee-aw then she smacked its rump and half shoved the sullen beast into a halting stumble southwards.

JACK PRENDERGAST

How to explain the mysterious means by which rumour may leap its way unaided across a barren wasteland? Word had overtaken them, nonetheless. Through whispering curtains and sly asides, the righteous burghers of the next town already knew the nature of that about to grace the stinking thoroughfares of their own fair domicile, and they were resolved to have none of it. There was to be no room at the inn. No mercy or shelter for the plaything of some horny Roman brat. As far as they were concerned, she’d made her bed and she could go shit in it. Not so the Assyrian necromancer. The girl was a fox. Her honeypot may have been temporarily inaccessible, but their were other portals within which a man might sheath his sword. Besides, he hated his monotheistic neighbours and their cruel, capricious god. ‘I am cognisant of your distress, old man,’ he said soothingly to Yusuf. ‘I have but one bedroom in my sorry excuse for a dwelling, but if you’re willing to overlook the unintended insult, you may bring your betrothed to term in the pig-sty out the back.’ She knew enough to bite the umbilical cord before freeing her son’s airway with her fingers. She sat now, lost in thought as her husband shivered from withdrawal symptoms. ‘What will we do, and where will we go?’ He wailed. ‘We are lost, with no means to support us, and a suckling babe with an empty belly to boot!’ The girl had suddenly become Woman. She gave a teat to the infant, all the while staring up at the night sky through a hole in the roof tiles. ‘Have faith, old man, the child will sustain us. The pagan has sworn to teach him the black arts. Our god has not abandoned us!’ ‘Foolish girl,’ whined the elder. ‘And at what price? How are we to recompense such an illus trious tutor?’ ‘There are ways,’ she stated matter-of-factly. ‘Look upwards at the firmament, Yusuf; isn’t yonder star most singularly bright?’ She conjured a flagon of good Assyrian wine and hurled it at him. As he wept in gratitude, she began to hum a lullaby to her blue-eyes.

Lynsey Bailey THUMP

I saw myself from above I was still grey in pain I watched as the doctors nodded their heads I watched as family came and went I wondered do I want to stay here When heaven and God are so near

Through the six shades of my window an eerie breeze channels the naked oak, mood-swing of season rally at the glass as dead leaves drift from battlements high.

Thump a pain runs through my chest Thump a bruise to add to the rest Thump did you ask me if I wanted to stay Thump … I had no say

I see clouds with scarlet chambers tunnelling to earth on the wings of rain as leaves fluster in the autumn’s cold breath like bloodspots under a canvas of blue.

Though I see the memories of youth in the charged light of cast evening so vivid are these daylight silhouettes that are lashed across the canvas of mind.

Lapping at the back step a blood leaf drifting in a stream bruised apple cores,

The hurting path of love and its thief that rush of blood to head and heart, cruel mist of soar rejected emotion a pleading fool lay blooded by beauty.

straying to the doormat’s spillage of light like a moth that hunts the glowing red bulb.

Behind each epic kiss I have battled where I played an angel with a devilish thirst I was a torch that ventured out unlit into a wilderness I had never touched.

When the armour from the wind does soften behind rain a desert of auburn shines,

In the evening glow I saw how I grew the mask of the person I became,

the storm hovers in collapsed sky as autumn revives its dark evening chill.

from the coyness of a wordsmith to a brawling bear on a damp bar-room floor. I had taken myself to extremities and tasted the bitter and sweet fruit, my guardian angel blacked out at the bar his forehead swimming in the slopes of hearts unblessed.

M.J. DUGGAN BEHIND A VEIL OF COLD SEASON

When spring evening had lost the day I saw everything that I had abandoned all became feasible with sight and touch, as if memory were a city under siege.

M.J. DUGGAN WHEN EVENING LOST THE DAY 46

Ananya S Guha RELATIONSHIP

You imagine I think and chew left overs of a conversation buried in books and rotund table talk. I sigh. You weep, that the conversations are dead and mythic. I find the whole thing cryptic as you are. But I want to dig deep and unearth those conversations excavating half truths in mermaid’s attire. Do you want them back, do you? So that we may at least live in the past, with shadowy lengths of the truth. Or do you too want them dead? Exploring conversations is a strange pastime. But it excites possibilities that, you cavort in my mind. You can tell me if the relationship is fragmented, or are you piecing it together? Like the myth, the excavation in an anthropological summer?

Do you even know what I say When I say life scares me so much And do your ears, I cannot touch Feel this pain, I discussed today. Will you give me the help, I ask Or simply turn or look away Letting these feet wander astray No more working towards the task,

eric mwathi PRAYER

Of being god-fearing, mild, and good; It’s clear, you helped me countless times When notes to my doom loudly chimes, You’re there as scriptures say you would. It’s often hard for me to talk To you, oh Lord, whom I can’t see When I bow down upon one knee Praying in my spiritual walk.

On speculation - Faith in me Has gott’n me this far! I have immense faith In my uncovered potential! Faithfully, I dwell on my strengths And bypass my weaknesses! In all faithfulness, I awe at others’ blessings Even as I sideline their negatives! I abstain from gossip -

As ever! The Almighty gives us all Equal share! Remember,

In faith, This planet belongs To all and sundry! You and I Promise a We! Faith in God Cultivates Faith in Oneself! Sujaya Venkatesh FAITH !

NEELAM CHANDRA AN ODE TO GOD

I have often chatted with you As a child And asked you innumerable questions Questions for which I could not find an answer… I have often Taken protection on your lap Whenever I felt Lonely, sad and dejected… I have shared with you All little joys of my life Things which made me happy Things which amazed me Things which drove me crazy… I have often Even got angry with you For not giving me The birth of a princess With a silver spoon…

Driving through the desert We take a picnic at the Creationist Museum to see how the odd half lives men riding dinosaurs while we gnosh on tuna salad I spilled Sun – Chips by the Adam and Eve mannequins wondered why they didn’t show Eve pre-apple I always imagined a spectacular rack and no – not a single unicorn ascending the ark The whole experience just made me horny in a non-denominational museum white – washed mythology scrubbed bare of human grit I just wanted to push you up against a wall leave a Pollack on the virgin walls A Turin-like mark for the ages The gift shop – shrouds of different ilk disappointing shirts and books, Jesus statues and tracts burping tuna we run to the car the heat as I open the door a personal and mobile hell

Neither have you Ever talked to me in words Nor was your lap Really physically present Nor did you pat me When I disclosed you The reasons of my happiness Nor did you retaliate When I was annoyed with you… But you were always there with me Helping me analyze And find my own answers To the labyrinth puzzles… You made me help Have my own protection mechanism With the help of which I could grow stronger Day by day… You made me realize That the real happiness Lay within me Deep in my heart…

BRIAN HOOD THE CREATIONISM MUSEUM

And you made me understand that The real triumph lay Not in being born a princess But in struggles Which had the power to transform Even the steel into silver…

I thank thee Oh! Dear Lord! For being a patriarch In the real sense….

•

Glancing at the wool And imagining a sweater

•

Looking at a deformed baby And imagining a super star

•

Scrounging for the right word And imagining a novel

•

Recognising the devil in you And imagining God

•

Asking for euthanasia And imagining freedom

•

Stuttering every second And imagining an orator

•

Sowing the seed And imagining the tree

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Looking at the amputated foot And imagining conquering Mt. Everest

•

Taking the first step in the dark And imagining the light at the end of the tunnel

•

Proposing to your best friend And imagining your dream home

Most importantly Faith is •

Accepting whatever I write

P.S. Do not belittle faith with a full-stop

MiICHELLE D’COSTA FAITH IS 49

I am burning Your love onto my breast. Place Your seal on my life’s story. Melt your wax, Master, sear it onto my envelope. Then I shall know You more.

WILMA KENNY THE MASTERS SEAL

The act of creation can be a destructive force of nature, a cirrhosis of the liver inside a vision, a spontaneous cloud of volcanic ash spewing from the mouths of singing heroin addicts, blocking the sun from teenage windows for generations to come.

JAY SIZEMORE CREATIONISM

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the razor fine edge of imagination slicing through the flesh between the ear and the skull, the dementia coursing through acid soaked headbands and out through the fingers of genius that turned music notes into helium-filled balloons, the bottle clutched between the fingers of ravens and black cats puking up poems while dying. If god created the universe, it must have torn him apart, an idea so great, it pulsed through the pores of his skin like words dripping fullformed out of the tip of a fountain pen, his body filling with ticky-tack paper and stars until he ceased to be there, and existence was all that was left, spiraling out of the remains like foliage on the graves of soldiers, life a blossom that can never look down and see its own stem, though it feels something must be there, holding it up.

When I sneezed, I blinked, and then I opened my eyes, and behold, I had created the universe. Such an act of accidental solipsism, that I had to blink some more and allow my sight to adjust to the brightness of so many stars.

Jay Sizemore

My breath was the vacuum of space, my blood was the sea of worlds, my mind was the orchestra of life, my hands were change. I dreamed and solar systems were born between the synapses of my thoughts, and I felt the tickle of lives s pringing from countless oceans like bubbles in my veins. I traced a finger through the star dust of galaxies and wrote my name where no one would ever see, I left my footprints in black holes and the floors of the deepest seas on planets where no thing would ever breathe. After a millennia I felt the schizophrenia of the thoughts of grasshoppers and the dreams of new minds careening through my own head like meteors on a collision course, and I smiled at my own insanity. Yesterday, I found out I have cancer.

JAY SIZEMORE GOD OF CREATION

DAVID BOEVING IF ONLY

If poets were gods like “[fuck it, you’ll figure it out right?]” would sequoias kneel, mouths open for this fragment absurd? The brown hooded alley’s curbs drench into a red spray of ashes when windows shatter and fallen walls pulp cries over a fear stricken mess tears soaked, dry in remains of the old and new in a plot of sweeping rot away they go, the lost whimpers mute on the gory way of costs now searching for limbs in debris torn apart in a rue of memories scouring the blood caked streets are youthful eyes and little feet, for a lost slipper fallen here, in hope to find the wearer strewn somewhere they’ll find a cart to pile on the pieces, under the sun in lightened faces, we can be killed but we can’t be ended, the remainder of us will fight unrelenting the night soon will turn dense, and the sky will mourn in its usual red as death is not for those once freed, the rest of the carcasses just bleed glee.

Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani BLEED GLEE

CONNIE A. LOPEZ TITHE

sang at church but jesus didn’t want me said i was too broken too angry & didn’t like the way my jeans fit but for different reasons than my mother i wore a dress the next weekend but it was too short so when i knelt to pray god said open wide & now i think i may have miscarried

a weakness seared bound

CONNIE A. LOPEZ THE DEVIL

neither (fe)male but all servitude depends on who stands on top power ever changing a circle’s end ii ever try to scoop flies out of soup a red cliché an apple, a bloodening, a passion see the red & the bulls & the horns oh, but the sound of the horn sudden— & the red becomes almost like jazz

HANNAH POKKY

SHAMELESS PLUGS FROM THE TEAM

Jack Utley Photographer

TONGUE SUBMISSIONS SECTION FIVE

OLIVIA AUCKLAND Thoughts of the Dying LEANNE CARTWRIGHT Soon JEMMA UTLEY Monere

“Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.” ―- Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality

Thoughts of the Dying RING THE BELL. Hear my echo. I am bouncing off the walls. Spending my days in reflection…it feels as though memories fall out in my sleep. Am I losing my memory, or just my ability to recall? Nothing is permanent. Nothing is permanent. But I will forever be thankful for what I have had, and thankful for what is to come. The bathroom had mirrored walls. I saw myself eight times, and then eight times more. I felt so small. Chances to do great things are not perennial; they pass. The poetry of Emily Dickinson never enthralled me. Is it because I neither could stop for death? ‘Immortality’, she says. I am doing a painting of you and I will send it to you. I drew a face like yours. I reeled from your voice. You touched me. No, was that not the wind? This pill is hard to swallow. I will waste away inside, in size, inside. Last night I dreamt I was making love to an African woman. We were on a beautiful oak framed bed in the middle of a rich forest. She died in my arms. She went limp, like a doll, and snapped in half at her waist. It is haunting me today. Who was she? What did it mean? Everyone looks so sad. We sat on the hill watching the sunrise. You said this is what heaven must be like. I suppose it must be. My soul and body will separate. Where do you suppose they’ll end up? I am just skin and bones. I won’t feel a thing. I got what I deserved with this one. I’ll prove it to you. Beauty is in priceless things, like feathers and rain. The sky is turning blue. Where did it all begin? What came before? A ghost sat at the harp. Her hair was white and fell to the floor. She wore a black satin dress. I walked towards her and she turned away. I said please I want to understand. She disappeared. She had the longest eyelashes I have ever seen. I will come for you and find you, and dance for you and disarm you. Here they will pine for things lost.

My children are imprinted on my heart and that will never rot. You all look so similar. Can you see our Jewish blood? I will live in the leaves of the sycamore trees outside your bedroom window. I will stash half of myself at your side. You are wise enough now. In you came hope. I forgot to tell you. And who will remember to buy the flowers? I can hear the wings, drifting, with the bursting dreams. “If I walk in darkness without one ray of light let me trust the Lord, let me rely upon God” Isaiah 50:10 Decay: ‘rot or decompose through the action of bacteria and fungi. The body had begun to decay.’ I am on my knees. I beg of you, don’t leave me here.

OLIVIA AUCKLAND

Soon He lay on the bed looking up at the crisp white ceiling, remembering what his mother had told him heaven was like. To him, death was death; there was nothing else beyond it, nothing waiting for him when his eyes finally closed. A wooden box and his body left to decay and feed the earth. At least that was something. Cancer, that’s what was killing him, there was no divine intervention. No prayers that would save him now. It had been six months already, how much longer would he have to wait. He was sick of waiting. Sick of wondering when his time would come. God knows but God had nothing to do with it. If there was a God and had given him Cancer, Tom wouldn’t thank him for it. He had been angry at first, angry that he had become a statistic, a victim. Reason had taken over and he accepted that he was no victim because cancer had no mind, it didn’t attack him on purpose. It was his own fault, despite the science, despite the knowledge he had he still picked up those cigarettes every day. He still drank every night. Even now, lying in this clinical room with a tube in his throat forcing his lungs to breathe and a heart monitor attached to him he was gagging for one last smoke. He was literally dying for another taste of that bitter sweet nicotine calming his nerves. He was the only one left, the only child of two over-zealous religious parents. His mother has scolded him for kissing his first girlfriend, calling her a harlot. He’d married that girl. Was it spite? Probably. He’d married her in a registry office knowing that his mother would hate every moment of it. His children were not baptised despite how much his mother begged him to. Why should he force them to believe something that he didn’t even believe in? His wife sat by his bedside sometimes while he slept. He could hear her muttering ‘Oh God, why?’ under her breath, he knew she was crying. She’d agreed with him that there was no God and yet now she prayed every day. She begged for forgiveness as if the cancer was some sort of punishment. He hadn’t been a bad man, he hadn’t lived a terrible life. He’d been loyal to his wife, kind to his children and despite the fact they pushed him to the edge sometimes he’d always loved his parents. Other than an addiction to small white smoking sticks and the odd glass of brandy on the rocks he’d lived healthily. He’d even avoided eating meat, not for any environmental reasons, he just didn’t like the taste of flesh. He got into yoga, twisting his body into shapes he didn’t even know were possible. Before the cancer took hold he could get his foot above his head while standing up. He got in four of his five a day most days and ate enough vitamin C. He wore the highest factor sunscreen to protect his skin, moisturising with after sun in the summer. He took care of himself. He’d noticed the pain in his chest and thought it was nothing. He started coughing whilst doing the downward dog and went to the doctor. Within two weeks he knew that he was going to die. He went through the steps as though they were scripted. He argued with his wife, he rejected the truth, he cried. He’d seen so many films where at the last minute the main character would have some epiphany, some prayer to say, some hope to hold on to about the afterlife. He wished he had that sometimes, that ability to believe in something. He’d had faith in science, in medicine, in human development and evolution. All medicine was doing for him now was keeping him alive with wires and tubes. All science could do was tell him what was wrong. There was no hope left, no faith left. He was going to die.

“Oh God!” He cried, feeling that crippling pain in his chest again. Soon, it’ll happen soon.

LEANNE CARTWRIGHT

Monere There’s a statue for you in the garden of my mind. You’re standing tall with eyes that see through souls and into the material of our reality. There’s a monument to you, and it is everything you deserve, you’re six-hundred feet high and with arms open wide, hugging the sky. Flowers intertwine and wrap around your legs, rooting you to the earth as cloud scattered wind blusters past your ears and through your open fingertips. You’re wearing a jumper cast in vibrantly painted stone, you shine out and glow. Your jeans made of iron have no holes or stains and are a periwinkle blue. In my mind you are everything you ever wanted to become, and I carry this monument inside to remind me of the importance of being strong, keeping faith, and warning me not to waste my chances . You’re looking down on me with those searching eyes watching every step I take towards a better future that you gave up your life to give. But now that you’re only a monument your hand is too high for me to hold. So I hold you in my heart, never to let you go.

JEMMA UTLEY

APRIL’S THEME: EARTH. CLOSING DATE: APR. 20TH The one thing most of us have in common is the fact that we live on this beautiful green and blue jewel in space. Earth Day falls on the 22nd of April and we want to celebrate the diversity of the rock that we inhabit. Whether to you it is a palace or a prison, a vast expanse of unknown majesty to embrace or the scary, dirty cold stuff you’d rather keep under your foot. This month we’re asking for two types of submission from you; One: A piece about the earth or the environment in any form, a drop of rain on the soil, anything that expresses your love or hate of the natural world. Two: A piece about damage to the environment, global warming, the hole in the O-zone, deforestation or similar. Show us your feelings on the matters that are having a negative effect on the environment. WE WANT BOTH TYPES FROM YOU! Get involved, get published and celebrate what you have to offer our diverse world of words. For artwork and photographs: The world is sometimes shocking, outwardly beautiful, often intriguing and at times, ugly. Represent it. Closing Date for Issue 4 is Saturday 20th April 2013 Email it to: submissions@tonguemag.co.uk

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